Page 32 of Villainous Summer

The first ones, I could do at home. All I needed was my internet, a VPN, and his number. I made a fake email address to send all this to [email protected]. It was a quick search to find multiple companies where I could input his information.

Years before, my father had put his number down for a home warranty service, and he was still getting a barrage of messages from the company, who had even shown up at his door a few times. Cory would get incessant calls about roof repair, life insurance, as well as religious organizations. I only subscribed him to the ones I knew to be the most tenacious. The companies who keep calling and emailing until you send a notarized letter asking for them to stop.

For about fifteen minutes, I worked on a photo editing site, creating haphazard graphics with his profile picture. Then I went on an online classified ad page, posting about free goats. I posted on the dating section, seeking a couple looking to add a third. Free scrap metal and lawn-mowing services for a fraction of the price.

After logging out of my social media accounts, I typed in his email address in the username field. He told me once his passwords were all the same, his birth year and his childhood cat’s name. I tried not to dwell on the fact that I knew Fudgie’s name the entire time but had no idea about his long-term girlfriend.

One try, and I was in.

From there, I could schedule three weeks worth of posts. I started out with slightly embarrassing things, cartoon memes that our grandparents love and updates about his upset stomach. Every other day, I posted updates of incriminating things he had told me. The time he shit his pants while waiting in line for concert tickets. The way he still called his father “Daddy.” The hair plugs he tried to pass off as real. The time he threw a rock through his middle school teacher’s window and hit her husband. How he shoplifts candy from convenience stores.

While I was in London, he shared so much of his life with me, and I was able to use it all. Was there a chance he would suspect it was me? It was a possibility. But something told me if he was so flippant with me, he was the same with others. I was likely one of many who had this information on him. Judging by the way he thought I’d still be interested when he stopped by, he had severely underestimated me and what I was capable of.

I changed his password and contact email address, sending it to a fake account I had set up a while back. Knowing what I did about Cory, it would take him a while to notice the updates and even longer to check his email.

I used to tease him about the astronomical notifications he had on his phone, which would work in my favor.

Remaining precautious, I tried to get into his email and found it wide open. Logging into his socials was one thing, but his email could’ve been another.

Once in, I skimmed his emails but didn’t read anything. I’d save my ability to log in just in case I needed it later. I then deleted Meta’s and password change emails.

He had no two-party authentication. No security questions. For being such a deceitful man, he was far too trusting.

After setting the laptop aside, I pulled the basket beside the couch over to me. Knitting needles and the Aran yarn in hand, I set to work. Counting the stitches, I brainstormed my next move.

Van

All cars come with an owner’s manual. A guide to every feature and how to fix the simple problems. For years, I had thought that the guide to women was as simple as a car.

Yes, every car is different. Some require more upkeep, some a different touch when handling their undercarriage. But there is a guide, a plan.

Before everything fell apart with my father, I used to help him in the garage. He and my mom bought me a ’76 Datsun 280Z for my fifteenth birthday. It didn’t run, but they promised me that if I could fix it up, I could have it.

For months, I was under that car, scraping my knuckles and pinching fingers. I cleaned the grease off old parts and reassembled them. I would look up videos online of how to replace the timing chain.

All the while, my father was there, monitoring when he could and encouraging me. It was the closest we had ever been as father and son. That lasted only long enough for me to graduate high school until he dropped the bomb on me and my mother.

It took me years before I could as much as check my tire pressure without thinking of my father.

It had been over five days since I dropped Summer off at her place. Five days of meeting friends at the local dive bar for a drink. Of work and home and dinners alone. Of visiting my mom and stocking her fridge with groceries. Five days where I tried to forget the sense of holding Summer’s body close to mine. Five days of catching the hint of flowers and soap, only to find nothing there. Of wishing I had done things differently.

Devin let me know Summer was fine—feeling a little rough after her night but, otherwise, back to her old self. Not that I knew what her old self was.

Summer was a mystery to me. Normally, I liked it when things fit together. When the step-by-step instruction tells me exactly which part goes where and how best to optimize productivity.

In the past ten years, my romantic relationships could only be described as simple. I liked nice girls looking for a fun time. Girls who laugh easily and came even easier. Sure, they would come with expectations, and while I didn’t like letting them down, I was also never deceptive. I can’t do monogamy, so don’t expect it from me—take it or leave it, and almost all took it. No strings, no complicated expectations or emotions involved.

There was none of that with Summer. She was complex, a puzzle I could assemble. And despite always telling myself I didn’t need complicated in my life, I wanted to know more about her.

At night, when I would go to bed, I would wonder what got her so upset at the party. Who was this ex she had mentioned? What was it about her that entranced me so fully?

Was she thinking about me?

Then, just like months before, she was on my porch—this time on the proper side of the front door—with a bakery box in her hand.

Swathed in the late afternoon light, sun filtered through the fir tree in my yard to cast shadows over her light hair. She wore a light-pink silk strappy top and jeans, her toes painted a bubblegum pink in gold sandals.

“Hey, Hot Rod.” She gave me an uneasy smile.

---